One last Christmas present

She really did want to make up to Willow for freaking out and ghosting, even if Willow was being great and didn’t mind one bit. The best way she could think of, short of becoming a genius overnight and doing Willow’s AP homework, was to support Wills in some of her witchy endeavors. So when she’d seen the book of binding spells in Giles’s secret stash, she thought she’d start in on the ‘capture spell’ she’d seen on the first page. Learning how to use it, sharing that with Willow, would make them both badass BFFs and give her a leg-up on Faith. They both had Slayer strength, but only Buffy would have magic. Faithy would just have to make do with low-cut tops.

She was mostly thankful someone (Giles?) had written “capture spell” next to all the exotic words she’d had to sound out, and the illustration had shown the spell’s setup right down to the crystal pendant.

Following the instructions she’d bothered-slash-managed to Google, she plucked a few hairs off her head and wound them around the crystal, then took a needle from her pocket and pricked her finger. The wince made her pause her chanting a moment, but she picked up instantly as she dripped her blood onto the crystal. She felt a sense of warmth, of exertion flushing her skin. Without moving, it was like lifting weights, hitting a runner’s high while she jogged. It was power flowing through her, into her, out of her, a circling pattern that grew and grew. Her hair was drawn into the crystal. Her blood sizzled away.

Even though the window was closed, a gust of wind kicked up, snapping the candles out, even knocking one over. But that was nothing. Buffy was knocked backward, head over heels, and she thought a vague hell. This never would’ve happened to Faith. In fact, people probably praised Faith for not getting herself body-slammed by self-cast spells.

Picking herself up, Buffy saw the crystal glow softly, a red the color of the blood she’d sacrificed. She broke out into a grin. Maybe Faith wouldn’t be top dog after all; a female dog, maybe. 

Her triumph was short-lived. All of a sudden Buffy’s clothes dissolved into nothingness, exposing her with shocking explicitness. Even though she was alone, being stripped so quickly, so forthrightly, so mercilessly—it sent a charge of adrenaline through Buffy that was almost thrilling.

Then the feeling of bareness was replaced with the pressure of sturdy leather cuffs forming around her wrists and ankles. The sudden press of their warm heaviness into her skin was especially shocking after being stripped. They were tight, too, almost painful in how fast they held her.

Naturally, Buffy yelped in surprise, but it was cut off by a ball gag forming in her mouth, filling it, muffling her. A palpable sense of outrage struck Buffy as rapidly as any of the magic. Bondaging her up and taking her clothes was one thing—especially taking her clothes—but being rendered speechless just rankled.

She moved immediately to rip the gag away, no longer caring about removing the tight leather or covering herself, but the magic was even quicker. Her restraints pulled her, as if tied to some invisible ropes, over to the bed. They yanked her off-balance without warning and only Buffy’s Slayer reflexes let her get her feet under her as she was dragged over, kicking and muttering and naked, only now feeling embarrassed as she felt the jiggle of her unrestrained breasts and the cool air on her bare cunt. Naked, she was naked—

The pulling restraints jerked downward suddenly, beaching her on the foot of the bed as if throwing her down on it. She was bent over it, her ass in the air, her face pressed down against the mattress so hard that it knocked the gag deeper into her mouth, rattling her teeth. The restraints around her ankles pulled apart, holding her down with her legs spread, her thighs open. It was an intensely shameful position, one Buffy couldn’t imagine adopting under any circumstance. She couldn’t even believe a spell could have the audacity to force her into a Playboy pose like this. No, not even Playboy, Xander said Playboy was classy, this was downright Hustler.

“Are you done?” Buffy demanded of the magic, though with the gag in her mouth, it came out as a series of muted mumbles. It was holding her in place, pulling on her arms and legs as if trying to yank her further into some impossible stance. Take a picture, buddy, it’ll last longer.

Then a collar—no, a frickin’ muzzle that extended from her chin to her sternum, holding her head completely in place—tightened around her slender neck. She couldn’t turn her head an inch. She was forced to look at the front of the bed, and that indignity would’ve had her demanding to talk with Dr. Strange’s manager if it weren’t for the fact that she saw chains appearing from nowhere, pulling taut between her wrist cuffs and the posts at the far end of the bed. She heard more chains rustling, another shift in the pressures at work, and she knew that more chains were roping her ankle cuffs, attaching her to the bed’s rear posts. 

More cuffs formed around her ankles, her elbows, with more chains leading off of them. Thankfully, some slack entered the equation with the chains taking over her bondage instead of the magical force continuing its pull on her. Immediately, angrily, she ripped her right arm toward her body, hoping to shear off the bedpost that was holding that arm. 

As impossible as it seemed, the chain attached to nothing more than a wooden post stopped her superstrong arm in mid-air.

Shocked, Buffy forced her head to turn as much as it could. She could mostly only shift her eyes. The various restraints held her so firmly that the most she could do was wiggle her ass, and she was in no mood to put on a show like that!